


Such a pain in the bud

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [78]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Gen, Hanahaki Disease, Mild One-Sided Attraction, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26548918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Flowers have their meanings, but their reasons are a bit more complicated.
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Series: DS Extras [78]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 1
Kudos: 40





	Such a pain in the bud

He's choking up flowers again. The yellow buds come apart so easily; small sliver thin petals, green twisting stalks and leaves, bent and broken and leaking that bitter sap, and then the thicker clotting disgust of his own foul blood coating his tongue.

He had woken up to it this morning, petals to his pillow and threadbare bedding, and it has haunted him all day, well into this evening, approaching nightfall now, and these last few days, weeks of coughing these flowers up, it was getting…

...getting so _tiring._

"...Hey, are you alright?"

A hand on his shoulder made Maxwell blink back into awareness, his breath shallow and whistling, raw pain in his throat and the blood splattered petals and plant remains in his hands, and with a hiss he straightened up from where he had been leaning against a tree, tossed away the sticky disgusting remains, reminders of his own foul luck to land in a horrid glop into the grass. The other man gave him a frowned, oddly concerned look when he rose his gaze, but Maxwell just shook his head, raggedly cleared his throat and briefly brushed any remains of leaves or petals from his suit jacket, and each forceful swallow was burning thin and full of raw agony but he made himself suck in a sharpened cold breath, shaking himself back into reality.

Now was not a good time to fall under the unmerciful nature of his affliction.

"Fine, Higgsbury, just fine. How much longer until we reach camp?"

His brief stop had halted their travel back, and just glancing to the child in the other man's arms was enough for him to admonish himself and his cursed illness for causing the interruption. Webber curled close as the short scientist held them, extra limbs having clung just as sharply as those spider pawed claws, caught up in Wilsons vest and undershirt collar, and their fur was bristled up into one massive spiny puffball of dark ash colors and shiny greasy spines. 

Interspaced and tangled within their bristled furs and harder plates of chitin were the red curling spires of thin petaled flowers, thinner stems that rose up as if into rounded barbed cages, or perhaps multiple reaching limbs into the sky. Where there were flowers there were no leaves, and with the leaves no flowers, but this did not at all help the reality of the situation, no matter how colorfully pleasing or exotic the flowers may look.

Every once in awhile Webber gurgled up a strained breath, coughed into Wilsons shoulder and clung tightly for that anchor, and more petals and flowers and stems would be forcefully ejected from between those mandibles, dragging long lines of trailing roots and the darker purple hue of tinged blood or stripped flesh.

This was a painful, harrowing experience, and Maxwell couldn't help but wish it had never come into contact with the child in the first place. Webber did not deserve it, nor deserve to even think such thoughts that the presence of these flowers growth signified.

It's been months since they had died and not reappeared upon the surface touchstone; the effigies had stayed untouched, the trauma of their unforeseen and mourned death not quite leaving the camp air, and it was sad to say but Maxwell had been one of the many who had given up and believed them to have been removed to another plane of the Constants reality.

Wilson had been the one to find them in the caves, deep in unexplored caverns and tunnels, nearby a destroyed touchstone that led to no light, no obvious trail back and up to the surface. He had been the one to recognize the tracks, follow the signs, waste days upon days to weeks to near entire months of darting from the surface back downwards and ever deeper, until-

Until he had finally found Webber, surrounded by their silent, antisocial deep cave dwelling spider kin, regressed into a feral hissing, biting half monster, a creature twisted by the darkness into doing everything they could to survive while still being haunted by the memories and thoughts of their friends, their...their family.

Maxwell did not wish to think of it, what it must have felt like, waiting and trying to survive and live in the near total darkness. He did not wish to dwell upon what it must have been, to remember light and family and friends and welcoming pure life, and to only awaken to total darkness for days, weeks, months at a time.

He did not wish to try and imagine what it must have felt like, the first inklings of abandonment, betrayal, of how utterly sure the shadows and Them whispered that they were _unloved_ and left all alone once again-

-how the first itching discomfort, the first digging roots spreading under the skin and the nasty perfumed flooded taste of flowers to the tongue and roof of mouth, how it must have all _felt._

Terrible, he knew, as he swallowed fitfully, turned his gaze away from the tired out, so very sick child. Webber had thought themself all alone, abandoned at the last moment of their death, and those horridly diseased rooting plants immediately latched onto the child's frail mental and physical health, planning to take full advantage.

They did not deserve such a fate.

Wilson's frown had gotten deeper, settled just so on his face that made something in Maxwell's chest twist in discomfort, but it quickly got distracted when Webber started to shudder in his arms, gargling spider hisses and whimpers of sound as they began to hack and spit against his shoulder. The brief stop quickly stretched out into a longer rest, and the only thing Maxwell could do was hover nearby, watch as the other man attempted to help the child breath through the flowers, cough it all up and expel the exotic red blooms, covered in hued saliva and purple blood and roots dragging from their throat with the darker flesh still attached.

It could be difficult to notice at times, as spiders had no tear ducts, but it was even worse off to have the knowledge to know that Webber was crying. They shook and shivered and clung to the other man, and Wilson in turn had that twisted discomfort, faint panic and fear and that even more determined focus as he talked them through the fit, voice quiet and firm as they both settled to the grass for a moment.

"It's alright, Webber, just breath. We're here, you're not alone, we won't leave-"

A mantra of words that seemed to ease the child's distress, as it had when Wilson had first found them; Maxwell had been a bystander then too, having accompanied the other man when he had near begged him to help look for any trace of the spider child down in the deeper caves. Wilson had believed that he was getting close to the end of the trail, but that far down into the darkness and it was better to travel with a partner.

Maxwell had humored him at first, but seeing the actual signs of sentient life, ashes and charcoal from small fires, chopped down fungal trees and chipped apart rocks, it was enough to put that blasted little thing called hope into what was left of his heart.

A camp without Webber was a gloomy camp indeed, and while Maxwell was certainly not the best with the children he's been privy to the effects of such a loss affecting Wendy and Abigail. His nieces did not fare well when their best friend was long gone.

Webber had been...less than cooperative, down in the caves, but the day or so it took to get them out of there, and the ensuing quiet night spent on the cobble trail back to camp, waiting out the dark and listening to the forest ambience surrounding them, seems to have jolted their memory somewhat.

They knew Wilson, of course, and judging from their first reaction immediately recognized Maxwell. It's been a long, long, _long_ time since the spider child has ever set teeth against him, but Maxwell supposed it was what he deserved.

The bandages on his arm didn't help with the pain, but the attack had allowed Wilson the time to catch Webber in the process so it was technically a win-win situation.

Once both men had noticed, and thus recognized the existence of the flowers, it made a bit more sense; more so for Maxwell, but his brief, vague words to Wilson seemed to let the other man get the general idea.

Webber had believed themself to be abandoned by those they loved and cared for, and the shadows and the cursed flowers had taken advantage of that. It was little enough information to get the idea across.

When Wilson softly tried to ask him what this meant in conjunction to the petals that Maxwell himself kept coughing up, all he got in answer was a glare and sharp retorting dismissal; he saw little reason in involving Wilson anymore than he already was, and it was none of his damn business anyway.

And then Webber started to have night terrors, waking from their fitful sleep, and cut their conversation short. Maxwell wouldn't call the reprieve from questions a blessing; the horrors that haunted Webber were far worse than usual, and they had almost suffocated last night from a particularly bad bout of the sickness.

Maxwell had to jump in and help then, reassuring the child that they had not been abandoned, that no one had forgotten them or would ever _want_ to, and having to ignore the growing heap of vomited purple splattered blooming flowers and ensuing leaves and stems and roots had made the night rather stressful.

He already knew, deeply well and from experience, that digging out the flowers from the mouth helped little when the blooms were crowded in the throat, but it was one of the few things Wilson could figure himself to do in the terrible situation; in the end, Webber beat out the flowers and was left gasping and crying from the pains afterwards, but held in the arms of one of those they called family.

Wilson had confided to Maxwell that he hoped getting them to camp, surrounded by the others, that it would clear up the sickness quicker. That getting a more constant flow of attention and care, from everyone, would kill the flowers faster, drive whatever mental agonies out of the child's mind and allow them to heal from the damage done.

Maxwell himself had no thoughts to give on this matter; having never beaten this himself, he had nothing to offer besides faint agreement. It was a vague hope. Perhaps it would work, or perhaps it would become permanent, a chronic symptom to having been exposed to Them and cave darkness that never let up, to isolation and constant whispers of self deprecation, but Maxwell did not voice this outloud.

Let the other man have his hope, and let Webber just focus on breathing and being close to their family. Maxwell couldn't do much but this for them anyhow.

As Webber calmed, mandibles flicking spider drool and torn petals from their mouth, caught between their sharp teeth and pain glazed eyes going dull in their exhaustion, Wilson easily picked them back up, careful in holding them firm and keeping his balance before he started to walk once more.

Maxwell swallowed hard, the earlier sounds of distress always seemed to prickle and scrape the back of his own throat with rough flower buds, and followed after, the pace set quick and steady atop the cobblestone path.

"We might have to set up for another night." Wilson spoke up, voice even and focused, and Maxwell rolled his shoulders, shifted the pack of supplies on his back as he lagged behind the other man.

Just above Wilson's shoulder, leaned into his wild tangle of dark hair, Maxwell could see the glint of spider eyes idly watching him, tracking his movements. 

It made him feel rather dreadful, knowing Webber still did not trust him, and he found himself wondering what They must have said to spark such distrust. It could have been anything, really, and there wasn't much Maxwell could say to dispute any accusations made against him; he was the reason they were here in the Constant, after all.

"If we leave early tomorrow morning we should reach camp by nightfall, hopefully right at sunset."

"Fine." Maxwells answer was short, clipped as he winced at the drag of sharpened agony that laced up his throat from the word, and it bundled sore and swollen in his trachea now, probably rooted thick and eating through whatever internal structure he had left there, tangling up from his wheezing lungs.

He believed himself to have a few more days, perhaps a week at most if he didn't overexert himself, but...being this close to Wilson was speeding up the process.

He certainly couldn't leave now, however; that may just solidify whatever lies whispered to Webber from the dark, and he'd rather not leave some horrid little seed of doubt into the child's heart and mind.

Let them make their own decisions, not the parasitic flowers or Their hungry influence.

"If I remember right, there's a small camp another mile or so down this way, the one by that frog pond?" At Maxwell's low hummed acknowledgement Wilson continued on, a slight adjustment to holding Webber that made the spider child chitter a small, shallow little sound and wiggle their extra limbs about a bit. "Hopefully the tent is still there, and we can use the firepit instead of winging it like last night."

Webber chirped in agreement, jostling as they nodded, yet their blank pale eyes never left Maxwell, not completely. A part of him idly wondered if they thought he was some sort of danger, to them and Wilson both.

It wasn't a nice thought.

It was getting rather late by the time the small group found the actual campsite; too many stops, rests when Webber doubled down in their choking fits, a few where Maxwell had to take a moment to catch his own breath and wheeze through the blood and blooms flooding his lungs, but no matter how clearly he could speak at any given time Wilson stubbornly refused to go on without him, waited it out by his side either way.

Webber watched, multiple eyes round and wide, still not speaking to him. Sometimes they'd mumble something to Wilson, cling to him for whatever comfort they needed at the given time, and Wilson would quietly answer.

Usually with a variant of "I don't know", or a more distressed look on his face. Whatever topic they spoke of, it obviously dealt with Maxwell's own condition.

It was discomforting, and certainly more than enough to make him suck it up and pick up the pace to get moving again, shallow, strained breathing and slight light headedness only a minor inconvenience when compared to feeling Wilsons worried gaze on him. Maxwell has had enough of that for these past few days, thank you very much.

It was still a massive relief, to finally get to slow down, legs aching and doing his best to hide the fact that he was near gasping for air at this point, hissing his breath through tightly clenched teeth, but Wilson didn't bother him when he made his shaky way over to the firepit and almost collapsed down to sit atop the log beside it. The rocks were just starting to get overgrown by weeds and grasses, a stray odd plant or two that could possibly be flowers of some other passerby from some other past time, but Maxwell fell into the automatic act of clearing it all out and setting aside his pack.

As Wilson set about cleaning up the old crockpot slouched all crooked like off to the side of the mini camp, Maxwell got a surprise visit as Webber twittered and called low spider noise for his attention.

They watched him still, that guarded look about them, the slightest flare from their fangs and mandibles as he slowly straightened back up from slouching over the plants he had ended up ripping out to clear the fire pit, but in their hands were a few logs, old dried spares from the chest nearby, and they handed them over silently. Their hackles and bristles had risen by the time Maxwell carefully took the wood from them, but at his silent nod, still wheezing faintly and not having the energy to speak up, the spider child seemed to relax back ever so slightly.

Before spinning around and running back to Wilson, latching to his leg and twittering whatever spider noises they usually twittered. Maxwell watched the other man as he made a sound of surprise, which turned into fond concern as he patted the child on the head, minding their twitching sharp limbs, voice low and quiet.

There were fewer bright red flowers tangled in Webbers fur now; small unbloomed buds and a few shed leaves had been left behind next to Maxwell, and he gave them a passing look before taking the blasted plants and tossing them to the fire pits bottom, stacking the logs in after. 

The seeds from this illness spread far easier in dirt than flesh, and the normal growing plants were awful reminders of the past, as he has come to learn.

The fire started easy under his hands, shaky as they had gotten from pushing himself as he had, but by the time the flames became steady and the evening drew to a close the light headedness had drawn back and his lungs had cleared with only a few choked coughs hidden to his sleeves, drawing as little attention as he could get from the other two. By now there was the soft sound of the crockpot boiling, whatever Wilson had thrown in there cooking away and sending up sweet smells that made Maxwell's gut curl in on itself with faint nauseated pains, and Webber was twittering more often, hanging about the other man and chirping up a storm of soft chatter, too soft for Maxwell to listen in on. 

His mouth tasted of foul blood, thick film on his tongue and that nagging sensation to cough, an itch to the base of his throat, but Maxwell settled himself more comfortably by the fire and idly listened to the indistinct ambience of the two talking. Whether it was on purpose or not, he could appreciate the fact that Wilson was not bothering him about anything right now. 

By the time night actually started to roll in he was dozing, almost catching himself falling asleep just sitting there, but the gentle reprieve from near constant coughing fits was a blessing that he was finding it hard to refuse. It would be quite nice, getting a good night's sleep for once.

And not waking to a mouthful of clotting flowers and vomited blood and bile. 

The other two had moved over by the fire as well, not too close to Maxwell as the spider child scooted and nudged the other man a 'safe' distance away, but he was too fatigued and comfortable to truly care and, as the minutes crawled by, they relaxed bit by bit anyhow.

Webber soon chittered and chattered spider sound, incomprehensible yet seemingly content whenever Wilson nodded his head and smiled or answered back with a sensible agreeing tone, and by now the sweeter leftover smell drifting from the crockpot made sense as the child licked their spider paws clean of berry juices and jelly, cleaning their fur even as Wilson tried in vain to get them to eat with a lumpy wooden spoon instead.

Maxwell didn't bother to ask for a share; the other man ate nothing as well, and he knew for a fact that they hadn't been carrying some large stock of berries for a full meal.

Webber was growing more comfortable, however, and they only hacked and gargled up a few coughs every once in a while, not as clogged up in the throat as before, so this was a good sign. Good enough to let Maxwell close his eyes, rest his chin in his hand, the fire's warmth driving away the fall chill behind him and encompassing the night air, and let his uneven breath inhale, exhale from him in a relieved pattern that allowed him a moment's peace. 

He didn't know how long he was out of it, half asleep, half awake, listening to the faint spider mumbled conversation that eventually drifted to the tent and into resting quiet, the ever constant nightly ambience, but eventually there was a pause to it, silence that lasted up until a hand on his shoulder jolted him awake.

Wilson drew back as he almost shot up to his feet, the surprise and tense air dissipating in an instant once he realized there was no threat, no hounds or spiders or some other foul ilk to ruin a perfectly good night, but just seeing the other man's face, that flash of concern before it muted into mild understanding, they've all learned that it was best to stay alert than get caught off guard, was enough to pull up a round of haggard coughing. 

Whatever reprieve he had been able to catch was over with now, and Maxwell collapsed back into sitting before the fire, covering his mouth as he leaned forward and choked out the offending blockages coming up from his throat. The effort drained him, worse than usual this time as his vision went spotty and his airway cleared only enough for the shortest of gasps, blood coating his gloved hands along with the scattered thin yellowed petals and sharper leaves, and he had to hack up even more when it came up as fuzzy white globs, slimy with his own blood.

These flowers, these _weeds_ , he couldn't compare them to the roses or evil flowers, not with the lack of thorns and bristling vines that snaked up in too long, blood and flesh caked roots, but the dandelions still had their clocks and they dried his throat up whenever they did. Each cough expelled a few of the less blood soaked seeds, small fragile looking things that drifted through the air, caught within the fire or escaped elsewhere, and all Maxwell could do was forcefully hack them up and try to keep his breath even.

A hand to his back alerted him to his audience, but Wilson didn't say anything, quiet as he waited out Maxwells fit. The concern would have been palatable, had Maxwell's mouth not tasted of bitter saps and that pungent flavor the flowers always left with him.

Not as bad as roses, he convinced himself, and yet still they drained him. In the end, dandelions will kill him all the same. 

Asphyxiation and exsanguination was just not a pretty way to go.

His throat was horridly dry by the time he got himself to stop, sucking in sharp, agonizing breaths of air, rasping through his coughed raw throat, but then something whitish and made of fabric entered his fuzzy vision, a clear offering.

Maxwell took the handkerchief with a thankful nod of his head, set about wiping his lips of excess blood and then cleaning his hands of the mess he had inadvertently made. Most of the flowers, stems and vines and a few trailing roots now, had escaped his shaking hands, fallen to the dirt below, and it made him internally wince, knowing the seeds would eventually take root, that there may be flowering dandelions the next time he visited this place.

"...Sorry." 

Wilson voice was quiet, dulled down, but Maxwell just did not have the energy to try and parse through whatever the other man was feeling or perhaps what he was conveying. The apology was unneeded; it was not the other man's fault Maxwell was like this.

The snaking, biting thoughts left by shadows tried to convince him otherwise at times, but the former Nightmare King had a good enough grasp on himself to know better than blame the blameless. It had little to do with Wilson.

Still, he didn't wave off the offered waterskin and when he shakily gave back the bloodied, flower tainted handkerchief Maxwell was unsurprised when the other man tossed it into the fire, only a long, hard look on his face when he glanced over it.

He was more focused on the water, unfortunately not masking the taste of blood and only worsening the bitter perfume, but it helped ease it all ever so slightly, the painful raw feeling making him raise a hand and rub his throat once he finished. It took another minute or so to fight back the shallow silent gasps, which threatened to grow worse as Wilson settled down beside him with a soft sigh.

The quiet between them stayed that way, Maxwell staring into the fire and focusing on easing his breathing, swallowing hard and fitfully whenever that threatening itch rose back up like a moving tide. The fire kept steady, and night pulsed in the moonless void and faint coating of shifting, slithering stars, an even fainter hint of cloud cover moving overhead, and though the silence between them was thick it was not tense.

Not yet, at any rate, and Maxwell took the moment to clear his throat, a few splintered coughs that he stamped down upon to keep from snowballing into something worse. The stringy damp leaves and few flowering buds that fell into his hands he tossed carelessly into the flames, stinking up the air ever so slightly more, but there was no wind and the smoke only rose in one twisting column upwards, into the pitch black night sky.

"...Is there anything I can do to help-"

"No."

His voice was rasping, rugged and filled his mouth with the taste of blood and that thick bitter sap like fluid from broken stems and torn leaves, but even so low the other man quieted again.

But only for a few minutes.

"...Are you sure-"

"Higgsbury, leave it." Maxwell sighed, hung his head as he heard Wilson take in another breath, the words already forming in the quiet air, and though it sent up that sharp jarringly painful itch he pressed on in speaking, whisper thin as his breaths went shallow and difficult. "It's nothing to do with you."

He could tell that his answer wasn't nearly enough, certainly wouldn't stop those poking, prodding questions, but as Wilson's worried frustrations started to become more apparent, shifting closer to Maxwell as if to try and urge him to _listen_ , as if he hasn't already listened long enough, had to these past few days and such long autumn nights-

The rasping grew exponentially worse, a sudden clog deeper below than his throat, sharp, aching pains that bruised up to his chest and made him hunch over from the strain, not to mention start gasping out those dry hacking coughs. 

It held its claws into him for far longer than he could necessarily handle, the air too thin and crowded thick with flowers and roots, a gush of blood from his lips that he absentmindedly knew would panic the other man somewhat, but all Maxwell himself could focus upon was sucking in thin gasps of air whenever he could, and the swelling agony only built upwards as his vision went spotted, light headed and off balance as he gaped useless for air, this shouldn't be it but at this point who could say-

And then a hard hand on his back, a heavy hit to loosen, shake out and dislodge the blockage, and Maxwell found himself practically laying face down in the dirt, his shaking arms just enough to keep him up off the ground, the vague odd muffling echo of Wilson's voice above him as the man tried shaking him back to awareness. His mind spun, just as badly as the few spits of the world his vision was still able to catch sight of, and choking in thin gasps of air as his vision returned to him, as his strength slowly came crawling back and the oxygen flushed through his system, and it was even worse off, feeling how close the pain had near driven him to tears.

Thankfully Wilson didn't try to pry him back up, just knelt by him, voice quieting as Maxwell started to get his wits about him once again. The vomited mess of petals and half destroyed flower blooms, tangled leaves and stems and trailing root masses, enmeshed with that stomach twisting view of what had to be flesh torn out in the process, it lay before him in the dirt and yellowed grasses and Maxwell, for a moment, felt even sicker.

He might have misjudged how much time he had left; he'd need to prepare quickly, once they got back to camp.

As he's learned from experience, leaving a mess that was a corpse to stench up a tent was heavily frowned upon in the main encampment, and it left less to clean up if he was well away from camp. 

The flowers always took a bit to come back after death, though as of late he's been dealing with them for far longer than usual. Perhaps he should take a trip out, away from the others, see if it clears up.

Or if something else takes its place.

When he sat up, slow and with a shaking effort that drained at his already drained strength, Wilson sat back without a word, though that screwed up worried scowl was probably still stamped on his face. 

Maxwell hasn't died from this in front of him in a long, long time.

He'd like to keep it that way.

As Maxwell worked to steady his breathing, a rough gurgle to the dip of every exhale, that clicking wet rasp to every inhale, he vaguely felt the other man shift, clear his throat awkwardly.

"Max, you, uh…" The concern on Wilson's face was heavy, dragging into something that almost looked exhausted, but when Maxwell turned his gaze the man raised his hand, pointed at his own face for a moment. "You have a little, um, something, there…"

It took a second to process, his mind was still trying to balance itself out and the weakness in him hadn't let up yet, but Maxwell slowly figured out what was being implied and raised his hand to find that the flowers had spilled out and now hung from his mouth, bunched up uncomfortably to the corners of his lips.

Briefly he brushed his hands over them, sliver shocks of faint pain and discomfort rising from the deep of his chest and trailing from his throat, but then his grip tightened and resolve cleared.

Ripping them out like that probably wasn't the best way to go about it, but all Maxwell did was hiss a low sound, hunch over as he tore the blasted plants and their flowers from him with as little delicacy as he was willing to give them.

The feeling, sensation of peeling away entangled roots from his own flesh, trailing up and out his throat and sparking the need to cough again, breathing harsh and fast from his nose as he willed himself not to, the sudden burst of blood and gush of thin bile, stomach acid from an empty belly and the nausea from swallowing his own blood down for so long, it was a bit too much.

He should know better by now, to not rip the damn things out; the lasting damage just made his suffering worse, not his death quicker.

Still, Wilson was there, firmly held him up as Maxwell gagged up the last of the trailing roots, threads of stringy flesh still attached, and his head spun and everything ached in those terrible ways he's come to associate with slow arriving death, but, he should have a few days left.

Maybe not even that, hours at most, but Maxwell hoped it would be enough to get through tomorrow. 

Then he could go out by himself, get this over with until next time it raised its ugly head and he had to live through it all over again. 

Maxwell's arms shook, his body lagging from the thin shreds of oxygen he could still pull in, from the lack of strength he had left to keep breathing, but Wilson was the one to toss the traces of his illness into the fire, the one to carefully guide him into sitting back against the log laid out next to the fire, the one to hesitantly scrub any traces of blood from his lips away with another of those roughly made spider silk handkerchiefs.

It made his chest ache, something twist and curl and claw in deeper, but Maxwell was at the end of his own strength at this point and all he could do was roughly swallow around the intruding stems and plants in his throat, wheeze for air around them and try to be content with that.

A part of him recognized that he shouldn't have come, that he would have lived longer had he stayed at camp and carefully isolated himself whenever possible, but…

Wilson had practically begged him to accompany him, with so many of the others sadly believing him to be delusional in thinking Webber was still on this plane of the Constants existence. There had been desperate hope in the other man's eyes, and his worry for Webber was genuine, as was his belief, and Maxwell couldn't just _dismiss_ that.

The dandelions growing, eating through his very flesh was testament enough for that.

Wilson was far gentler than Maxwell would like to give him credit for, and he squinted open his eyes, closed at some point prior as his strength began to fail, to watch the man focus on trying to rub out the blood stains now splattered on his suit jacket.

That was a vain venture, blood didn't clean well and especially not his own foul type, but he supposed it was the thought that counts.

Though, all it did now was tighten the roots in his throat, made him haggardly clear his throat and vaguely huff, chest constricting at the painful movement and making Maxwell grit his teeth and weather it out, his own heartbeat loud and shuttered in his ears. The reaction had Wilson backing off, however, and that was enough to give him a moment, still wheezing for air but not under so much agonizing pressure any longer.

...If he wasn't careful, he may just end up dying tonight. Sleep was out of the question now, and Maxwell heaved a shuddering, raspy sigh.

It was going to be a long night.

There was a faint shifting, low sounds that were not nightly ambience, and while Maxwell recognized it first Wilson was the one to go on the alert immediately, standing straight as his eyes darted around the small campsite.

Once the low gurgled hissing coughs became more evident the other man set his gaze to the tent behind them, though Maxwell himself only took a brief glimpse back, too fatigued to react in some meaningful, helpful way.

Thankfully Webber seemed to just be clearing their throat, poking their bristled head out from the tent and spitting out a few thin petals, flatter leaves in chirping low twitters. It didn't stop Wilson from hurrying over to their side, voice still thick with concern but now focused wholly upon the spider child, and that was enough for Maxwell to turn his head away and let his eyes fall closed, sucking in thin, rasping wisps of air and attempting to steady himself.

"Webber, are you alright? It's late, you should be sleeping…"

There was the faint twittering, low spider sound and the shuffling that was of Wilson helping the child to their feet, and it was quiet mumbles after that, just enough to not reach his ears. The fissure of distrust was still there, of course; while he certainly wanted to hope it would fade away soon, the amount of blood and flowers he's been expelling from himself all day and tonight spoke otherwise on how much time Maxwell had left to fix the situation.

Well, he's never fixed much of anything anyway; seemed to have made it a habit to make things ever worse off.

It stung, in his chest and throat, and now that his rasping had evened out into slowed heaves of inhaled, exhaled air, the rest of the aches and pains from the floral parasites presence showed itself. 

It was worse off for his arm, and Maxwell already knew the reason but that didn't stop him from carefully pulling up his sleeve, crusted with dried old foul blood and the ragged torn holes and rips that littered the fabric. The bandaging had come a bit loose from his fits tonight, ends hanging limply from where they had loosely untied, and it made him wince slightly as he carefully uncoiled the wrappings but this was necessary.

The bite itself had gone deep, had torn and flayed him as badly as any other overlarge spiders bite, and vaguely he remembered the toxins that had gotten into his bloodstream from the simple attack. It had made the trek through the caves rougher, Webber clinging and spitting flowers desperately against Wilson's shoulder and his own stumbling steps, the side effects of pain numbing and light sensitivity dogging him, how it felt as if days had past but it was only a few long, hard hours.

Webber was young, the venom diluted due to malnutrition and general unhealth, and it had faded from his system by the time they had all exited the caves, yet the damage had been done.

He should feel lucky, that infection had a hard time digging its roots into him, but Maxwell found that he disliked what has taken its place even more.

Underneath the bandages the flower roots ran just under his skin, a discomforting sight from how they bulged up and tangled within each other, the faintest stained floral matter than now criss crossed the wound. New buds were starting to appear, small stems just barely rising from his torn flesh, and the near blackened, blood dried edges of the injury were now invaded by the plants presence, ripping skin open even more so.

Tearing out these ones may not go so well, even as the disgust and faint threads of frustrated anger graced his chest, but Maxwell made do with carefully pinching off the new buds, mindful to not touch anything else as he tossed them into the fire. There wasn't a lot, but it would get much, much worse if he didn't treat the wound correctly soon.

He could hear footsteps slowly coming back to the fire so Maxwell flicked away the last unbloomed bud, took the dirtied bandaging back in hand, and started to cover the damage once more. Better to keep this out of sight from the others; he had enough of Wilson's worries to last lifetimes, and Webber…

...Webber didn't need to have that burden upon them. It had not been their fault, what the flowers had done to them and what they had done under such influence as Them and Their shadows. 

They were just a child, and Maxwell knew he had hurt them enough for this bite to not even come close to repaying that debt. 

He lifted his gaze away from the fire, crossing his arms somewhat protectively across his chest and in his lap, and there was Wilson, settling down a few feet away from him atop the log. 

Webber was with him, practically latched to his side and chirring spider sounds, clinging to his vest and blinking multiple blank, pale eyes idly out into the darkness.

There was enough strength leftover for him to carefully rise himself back up, not willing to just sit in the dirt like this all night, and instead have himself a seat atop the log once more. His limbs trembled from the strain, and his breathing whistled low and faint, shallow, but the nausea had pulled back, the light headedness only distantly gracing him, and Maxwell let his eyes settle to the fire and the ensuing silence to fill the night air and its echoing ambience.

It was quiet again, for a little while. He half expected Wilson to usher the child back to bed, but whatever they had spoken of to each other had somehow settled into Webber just sitting with the two of them by the fire, leaned and clinging to the other man's arm with a few eyes here and there slowly closing in exhaustion. 

Every once in awhile they'd gargle up a mouthful of petals, not quite as roughly choked up or hacking up blood and torn flesh anymore, and those Wilson helped them toss into the fire, thin red petals and a few leaves drifting lazily to the ground, joining what had escaped Maxwell's grip and ensuring that seeds will be spread.

A part of him appreciated the elegance of what those flowers were; spider lilys looked quite exotic, and he only vaguely remembered seeing a few in his lifetime before the Constant.

Unfortunately, he also knew they were quite poisonous. So far Webber only seemed to be suffering from the parasitic sickness, not the actual ingestion of the flowers themselves, and Maxwell hoped it would stay that way.

He knew he himself has already had to deal with the drawbacks of swallowing inedible flowers before, or at least their parts; thorns tore him up from the inside out, in quite painful ways to boot, and oftentimes the nausea didn't come from just the illness itself.

The things that were truly dangerous usually killed him quickly and painfully. He supposed the dandelions were merciful in comparison.

Faintly the stinging, aching pains in his arm started to draw forward again, that ill, nauseated twisting in his gut from an empty stomach growing as his breathing evened, as the flowers drew back and his mind settled with enough clarity to feel the universal aches and pains. It made him draw himself closer together, hold his injured arm close and set his jaw as he stared into the fire, the burning, broiling remains of plant matter charred into blackened ashy lumps by now, and his mouth was dry and everything felt _disgusting_ in a way he couldn't fully grasp-

The amount of discomfort Maxwell was in increased tenfold now that he had the oxygen to realize it, and he partly missed the suffocation and Wilson's cloying worry. If the other man could just keep his distance, or perhaps not _be_ here at all, then the relief Maxwell would feel would be immense.

Unfortunately he knew quite well that this was his fault, and he had to live with the consequences. It wasn't any use, trying to run from this sickness once it got its roots into you; past experience has taught him that.

What the flowers ate off from him, besides his flesh body itself, was hard to pinpoint and then force to change, or shift, or kill and bury and forget all about in the infinite Constant years to come. Unlike the automaton, Maxwell cannot shut off his emotions quite so easily.

...of the few times the robot got infested with flower growth, it was always something abstract. It killed them, in the end, as Maxwell himself has seen, stumbled upon and then hesitantly, awkwardly sat by and waited it out as the sentient machine huffed and puffed and grinded gears against thick vines and wide blooming flowers, not knowing the reason of _why_ , but that didn't change the fact that Wx78 was so _confused_ with what was happening to them.

They didn't understand, or perhaps they didn't want to, not wanting to get lumped in with humans and their emotional, mental sicknesses that haunted them so, but Maxwell had made a bit of small talk during those sparking, disoriented death throes and all he could offer up to somewhat answer their confusion was that it could oftentimes be brought on by the simplest of things.

Wx78 had coughed smoke at him, metal bending and bulging from the flowers and thick vines that had twisted and turned and grew upon them in ways that broke down and tore through their machinery, and they could not offer a single reasoning or hint of knowledge to _why_ it struck them, or _why_ it would kill them.

It was unfair, to make someone suffer when they did not understand, and Maxwell sympathized while wondering why the Queen would ever suffer to stoop so low.

Now, with the knowledge of what was happening to Webber, he supposed it wasn't quite her fault either. The nature of mortality, or perhaps the lack of understanding it in Wx78s case.

Still, those morning glories had been beautiful. It was too bad the automaton had stomped their way back after revival and tore the evidence apart, destroying any trace of the flowers. The threats of secrecy layered upon Maxwell afterwards had eventually come to fruition many seasons afterwards, but even his own murder hadn't stopped his own flowers from settling, rooting back into his lungs once more.

Those had been the marigolds back then, if he remembered correctly.

It took a moment, minds eye blurry and revolving around spare drifting thoughts and that encompassing pain, threats of pain, of what his inevitable future held for him this life, but the internal silence soon broke and Maxwell raised his head, blinked at the fire as it was fed once more, and realized that there was a touch on his shoulder.

It quickly drew back as he turned his head, his dark gaze, but Webber didn't skitter away, back to Wilsons side. They held their arms close, extra limbs tucked in and fur, hackles bristled up, and their voice was muffled by their closed up mandibles but the spider child still took in a shivery breath, hesitant as if worrying in meeting the flowers halfway, and they finally spoke to him.

"Are...are you alright, Mister Maxwell?"

Their voice was weak, unused and raspingly low, but there was a sense of familiarity in their eyes now, as tired out as they looked, some half closed and others already turned in for the night, for some sort of rest. 

It was surprising, to be spoken to after having decided to grin and bare the rejection that the shadows had infused the child with now, and over the top of their bristling head Maxwell could see Wilson give him a little wave, some sort of gesture along with an awkward encouraging smile.

The other man could've put them up to it, but Webber was watching him intently and, as his eyes fell upon theirs, there was a certain hint of lucidity in them that settled his mind in answer.

"Of course, pa-" He had to shut himself off right there, catching the word and snapping it, slipping in something less harmful, less bad memory recalling, "...kid. I am just fine."

That seemed to be the answer Wilson was encouraging, judging from his look of relief and more genuinely made smile on his face, but it was apparently enough to make Maxwell have to turn away and cough in his arm for a moment, bubbling flowers and their awful yellow slivers of petals rolling from his tongue. 

Not blood, this time, though it obviously made him a bad liar now.

The ache in him twisted, as did having to shove away what the uncommon feeling of having a smile directed to him ended up doing to him in the end, and Webber twittered uneasily next to him, limbs shifting and moving ever so slightly as they watched him intently. Spider expression can be difficult to read, especially so after months of not seeing them around, and his own exhaustion and drained strength from tonight just made it more blankly disorienting.

A part of him would rather not speak to Webber, not right now, not with the taste of foul blood slicked to his tongue and that heady perfume of flowers clouding up around him in a sickly odor, not now while he was surely _dying-_

His shallow gasps, vague attempts to hide the fact from the child in vain, stuttered when he suddenly felt pressure, a shifting of movement to his side.

Bristly fur, a few of those red blooms still entwined through chitin and hackles, brushed up against him as Webber scooted over. It made him stiffen up, hold his breath at the sudden intrusion and somewhat allowance of trust, and they were tense and he could feel the spring coil energy that had a hair trigger reaction just waiting for the wrong moment but the spider child did not pull away or hiss or show much besides vague discomfort to twist their spidery face.

Though now that he was close enough to see, Maxwell couldn't tell whether that discomfort was external due to his presence, or an internal thought process. 

"We're...we're really sorry." They shifted, spider paws clasped in their lap and extra limbs shivering before settling close to their face, and Webber sucked in a shaky little breath, a deep rasping clicking enunciating their own struggles and suffering from their lungs. "For, for biting you, Mister Maxwell. We didn't mean to…"

For a moment he was quiet; his most immediate answer was to deny that they needed to apologize in the first place, but to dismiss that sort of thing, from a child, a flower ridden one, and Webber, of all people to be cursed with this, it...wouldn't sit right in him to do so.

So he settled for the softer approach.

"It is alright, Webber. I...had not paid attention, and it was my fault in the first place." A double sided answer, one that made him internally cringe; Maxell may have been the one to approach the child first, having not seen them in the darkness of the caves in time, yet he was quite certain he was the one to curse them with evidence of these flowers and their infection in the first place. 

The others all had their reasons, if they caught such sickness themselves, but Webber had done nothing wrong. Their death had been a failure on the parts of everyone at camp, and they did not deserve to have that knowledge barring down on them.

"Don't worry yourself about me, Webber. I will be fine; it is you that we are concerned for."

They churred quietly at that answer, head down and pale eyes unreadable as they looked to the fire, but they didn't shift away from him when they finally shook themself from their thoughts. Fur bristling up for a moment, then flattening as they rasped air in and out in slow, calming breaths, so jarringly at odds to Maxwell's own attempts to keep his shallow gasps quiet, before Webber raised their head and gave him a small nod.

"Okay, Mister Maxwell."

They tilted their head away, blinking their eyes still wide and aware at the other man, and Wilson was paying enough attention to not waste time scooting himself over, settling beside Webber with a wobbly relieved smile on his face.

"Everything okay?"

Webber nodded their head at his question, the obvious attempt to look clueless at the conversation skimmed over, and then they leaned back against him, spider paws rising and clinging to Wilson as they clicked and churred and nuzzled their mandibles against his arm, eyes all closing.

They still didn't move away from Maxwell, and now were the only barrier between him and the other man. 

It made him heave a huffing sigh, swallowing fitfully against rising, slow blooming flowers, the dry drag of dandelion clocks sticking to the inside of his throat, but with his arms in his lap, aching injury held protectively close, Maxwell supposed this wasn't the worst position he could've ended up in.

Hopefully this acceptance of Webber's apology helped ease the child's mind. Maxwell was certainly not someone to ever fully forgive, nor trust either, but if the incident can be put behind them then it was something to help ease his own mind. 

It never sat well on him, when the children gave him distrusting looks, half remembered fear memories and bitter grudges. He supposed they had a right to it, but unlike the others the kids did not deserve to have such burdens laid across their minds all the time.

For a little while longer the three of them sat there, quiet and calm as the nightly ambience shifted and slithered about their small ring of light and flame. Maxwell could no longer doze, he did not want to risk it, especially not with Webber here, and the child was fast asleep now, bundled up close to Wilson and yet still beside him, still trusting to allow Maxwell close to them when they were no longer alert.

Perhaps the exhaustion had gotten to them, and even now, asleep as they were, every once in awhile a low gurgle of sound, a snort or snore and rasp of gargled obstruction rose up before clearing in their next even breath.

But they did not wake from a nightmare and the terrors could not get to them, sitting between their family and Maxwell.

Not as comfortable as a tent, and even the very thought made Maxwell's eyes heavy, fatigue dragging on him, worsening his shaky deep breaths, fighting the fall of his own eyelids as they tried to betray him. Of it all, only the sore pulsing pains from his arm, the curling gnawing in his chest kept him awake, or at least mostly awake.

Wilson, when Maxwell dared to give him a small, quick glance, seemed to just be resting his eyes, sitting straight and not wobbling from tiredness yet with eyes closed and neutral, relaxed expression in place.

The worry seemed gone, for now, no pressing matters to drag those wrinkles or a scowl down upon his face, unshaven for days and somewhat hollow from stress, but Webber falling asleep peacefully against him seems to have given the man a moment's rest.

...It's been a long, long time from when Maxwell had first, and last, seen Wilson cough up flowers. 

So long in fact, that it was before the Throne, before the portal to the chapters of the inner worlds, solitude in the wilderness, infinite deaths and painful death throes, all by his lonesome. Maxwell had watched, as Nightmare King, watched with so much intent and unnerving curiosity when those first few white petals started to be coughed up by the Gentleman Scientist, first and last pawn to enter the time distortion that was the Constant.

Petals became flowers, six point stars of white with muddy red veins, thickened stems and narrow thin leaves, and soon enough blood came up in the hacking and heaving as the sickness ran its course, elegant asphodels eventually ensnaring and choking the life out of the pawn and into the next plane of the Constants game.

It didn't happen often, nor did there seem to be rhyme or rhythm to it, but Maxwell supposed it was as he had eventually figured out.

Sometimes it was just the littlest of grievances that can fall out of control and grow into something much worse than it ever should have been allowed to be.

As of now, whistling near silent shallow breaths of air, focusing on that and little else as he turned his gaze back to the fire, Maxwell had to accept the fact that this lifetime was to end soon, very soon. Whether it was force of will or just plain luck, he would at the very least get through tomorrow.

The few leftover effigies set up at camp would certainly revive him, though judging from how his was now choked up with dandelion growth, eating through the wood and flesh that had once been used in its construction, he didn't think his next attempt would live for very long either. 

Something he just had to deal with, unfortunately; the others have broken from flower entangled effigies before and used the time they had in whichever way they wished, pain and blood and flowering plants notwithstanding. It wouldn't look good on him to reject the hard work of making an effigy in the first place, and his reputation was foul enough to begin with that anything worse may just be the last straw.

While he supposed exile may help relieve the flowers, it would only last for a little while before they came back in some other form or another. Those who had this sickness kept it until it was finally fairly resolved, and Maxwell was assured that such an end was not in store for him anytime soon.

Perhaps it would have been better, had these been roses and thorns. The Queen never let up on him then, the nightly darkness thicker, the shadows more prevalent, the Grue snapping an attack much faster and with a much higher shrill keen of a cackle he could hardly recognize as familiar anymore. 

He allowed it of her; after all she's been through, Charlie deserved to play the game as she saw fit, and if that meant tossing him around in the dark of night due to not being able to fend off shadow hands, too much coughing and choking up blood and barbed vines and crimson red petals to even try to struggle, firelight stolen and at her discretion, then that was how it was.

It gave her a level of satisfaction, knowing his suffering, and Maxwell did not argue against such an outcome. He had no right to that, not after all he's done.

The flowers, whether roses or dark flowers, marigolds or butterfly weed, even the so prevalent dandelions, they struck deep in a way nothing in the Constant ever could, and the sickness let him know of it so very clearly as well. By now he knew this was the way it would always be, and even the sheer hopelessness of knowing that has long faded into solid resignation. 

It was no one's fault but his own, after all.

His thoughts, spiraling down that twisted, too well trodden path, settled low enough to spark a dull, deeply unhappy twist in his chest. Just enough to make the next breath fitful, wheezing in air and still trying to keep the fact he was doing so hidden, but it wasn't enough to stop the sudden itching nag to rise once more up his throat.

He coughed into his arm, his dirtied sleeve apparently, rough and dry and ragged as the flowers hacked up fell to the dirt below him, speckles of foul blood to accompany them, and it squeezed his chest, pressure pressing down upon his lungs as he tried to suck in enough air to gag out the intruding plants, white puffs of seeds escaping him as his airways blew the dandelion clocks apart. The dizziness returned tenfold, light headed as his lack of oxygen came roaring back and swept the strength out from his limbs, and it was taking all he had to not move, not shift even a little too much-

-he _can't_ wake up Webber, not like this. 

Thankfully it wasn't the last to grace him; whatever had clogged up lower down in his chest, strangling his throat, was unlodged by a last forceful hacking cough from him, shaking and shivery as he hurriedly sucked in shallow gasps of air afterwards, eyes shut tight and trying to keep still, keep his balance. He hasn't felt any movement at his side, and when he opened his blurry, watery eyes to glance over it was such a relief to see Webber still there, still sleeping, resting.

Blankly he watched, blinked as one of those red flowers, more wilted now than earlier today, came loose at their calm sleeping breathing, drifting down from their tangling blackened fur and laying upon the earth with a less than brilliant coloration, going grey and brown and dried.

Well, he thought vaguely, Wilson was right about one thing. Webber was getting better, surrounded by others and their care, even if so far it was just the two of them.

And he being as sickly as he was, it was better that they were so close to camp now; he wasn't going to be able to stick around for much longer.

When he rose back his gaze Maxwell found himself locking eyes with Wilson. The worry had taken away any sense of resting relief from the other man's face, but he hadn't moved, _couldn't_ , with Webber sleeping against him. Perhaps he remembered Maxwell's sharp disregard for offered help, or at least the talk of such, because he silently used his free hand, digged into his vest pockets for a brief moment, and leaned a bit to hand over a handkerchief.

Still stained with his earlier blood, Maxwell could see, but he shakily took it anyway with only a hint of hesitation, eyes cast downwards as he turned his head away and carefully tried to wipe up the excess blood he had spat out. Webber would smell it on him, could probably smell it thick in the air actually, but seeing the actual damage may unnerve them too much. 

It also left Maxwell feeling more disgusted in himself than usual, and though getting clean out here in the wilderness was a feat in of itself he still tried.

Even knowing he was to die soon, he still tried to keep a somewhat dapper image about himself. It was the least he could do anymore, and once he inevitably lost that…

Well, it wouldn't do him any good thinking about it.

"...When we get back to camp, do you think some tea will help?"

Wilsons voice was quiet, cautious, and surprising enough to just make Maxwell squint at him for a semi confused moment.

"Or, or maybe the last of the honey? I remember someone wanted to try and make some taffy last we were there but maybe there's enough left over-"

"Higgsbury-"

"Maxwell, I want to _help._ " Wilson spoke forcefully, and there was the usual determined scowl on his face, the worry still there but masked over by firm willpower and confidence in his own words, and he stared hard at Maxwell, kept eye contact even as he lowered his voice once more, minding the sleeping spider child between them. "And if, if you don't want to talk about it, fine. But there has to be more that I can do than just sit here and watch like some, some sadistic voyeur!"

Perhaps that was some thinly veiled needling at Maxwell, or perhaps coincidental, but it still made him wince, turn away and curl his hands into fists in his lap. Scowling at the fire, ashen lumps all that was left now of any plant flora tossed in earlier, and there was the usual vague tickling to the back of his throat, the forceful nature of having to swallow around it and _feel_ the leaden weight of tangled flowers and stems and leaves and twisting roots, _feel_ it settle its way within him and just not ever leave, no matter how much he tried to tear it out.

Wilson's concern was unwanted and undeserved, and yet he always ended up giving it anyway. 

"...I could have worded that better, but you must get the point." 

And there was the apologetic tone instead, as if he had anything to apologize for. Unlike Webber, Maxwell felt that there was nothing to be had for accepting an unneeded apology from the other man; he was already in debt enough, and he wasn't quite ready to dig that hole any deeper than it has become.

...He supposed he had a bad habit, getting into debt with those he never wished to in the first place. 

Then again, this time was very different compared to the bargains he made before the Constant; these he found himself regretting in entirely new, horrible ways.

There was movement, which he stubbornly did not give his attention to up until the last possible moment, and Wilson had extended his hand, around Webber and keeping them up yet putting a firm, determined hold to his shoulder. The touch wasn't much, not really, it shouldn't be, and yet Maxwell had to grit his teeth at the upheaval of flower petals on his tongue, the twist in his gut and prickling of heat to his skin at the contact, unwanted and discomforting and all kinds of vague threatened pain-

-and yet a shiver of warmth, a sodden weight of mild comfort lent to him in the offhand gesture, it didn't mean anything at all and yet he so very slightly leaned into it.

The flowers would hurt him later for it, but for a shivery, shallow inhale of breath moment, Maxwell couldn't find it within himself to fight it right now.

"Max," Wilson said quietly, not quite yet a whisper but edging there, and his face was full of worry and focus and a firm determination to fix something he should not have to even acknowledge, but it was all _genuine_ , "are you _sure_ there is nothing I can do to help you?"

For a moment that Maxwell would always argue to himself was very, very quite brief, yet felt as if it had extended for far longer than he should have been allowed, for a moment Maxwell couldn't find it within himself to look away under the face of someone who genuinely cared enough for him.

And then his next breath came up a hissing rattle, and he had to turn away and hack up more flowers into the handkerchief he still had in hand, and this time he had to close his eyes and shudder and fight the urge to gag as more slick blood came up.

He was quiet enough, keeping still in a show of will he could barely keep up now with his flagging strength, but after a moment of wheezing and trying to organize his so scattered thoughts the hand drew away from him once again.

It made him feel worse, that he found himself missing it and what it meant.

He could hear the other man heave a sigh, mild distraught and frustrations lingering in the sound, but at the moment he just couldn't do much of anything but stay leaned over, fighting the urge to gag at the stench of his own vomited up flowers and foul thick blood, and a part of him knew he should sit back up, straighten as to allow his lungs room and then discard the mess he had made into the fire, but-

-he just _can't._

Not right now, anyways, not with his limbs shaking and his insides getting eaten away by floral parasitism, body still reeling from the severe moments where he lacked oxygen altogether, and his head hurt with a building blind of a headache and the light headed destabilizing of almost giving up, it was almost over, so very soon.

He'd not even get a moment's rest, reprieve, he knew, but Maxwell was so hopelessly _done_ with this suffering his very existence had cursed him with. Even if next time he awoke to flowers already rooting to his lungs, petals and leaves sticking to his dry tongue, at least it wouldn't be quite as bad as it was now.

That would take a few days, a week or so if he was lucky, and there really wouldn't ever be a relief for him from this, would there?

And then there was sudden shifting, pressure as weight leaned against him, and Maxwell blinked open his watering eyes, not willing to admit how close to tears this one had brought him, and turned his head to look.

It took another moment, to realize what was going on, and by then Webber had been carefully maneuvered, out like a light still, kid could be such a deep sleeper sometimes, set to lean against him now, their fuzzy bristled weight shifting and extra limbs curling and uncurling in their sleep.

Wilson was up on their other side, those spider paws still clinging to him, but the adjustment of position left little room and space between the three of them now, near huddled together as Webber let out a quiet little whistle of spider sleeping sound. 

Wilson didn't look at Maxwell, not at first, but he was close enough now to reach out.

If his breath caught in his throat when the other man clasped his hand atop Maxwells, a bit of a reach but not nearly as uncomfortable as earlier, it was not something he acknowledged to himself. Wilsons grip was firm, curling over his knuckles with a light squeeze, and his face had that genuine look about it again, concerning care painted across it as bluntly as it ever could.

It made Maxwells stomach twist, whether by flower interference or his own ingrained reaction to the soft look, and his mind felt blank and tired and he was just ever so _exhausted-_

But he still carefully turned his own hand, the worn gloves doing little to hide the warmth of almost contact, and it made him hiss a low exhale of almost relief when those fingers entangled with his own and held a firm, comforting grip together.

"Let me help." Wilson whispered quietly, one arm protectively circled around Webber and keeping them safe, stable, and the other holding hands just across with the former Nightmare King, old and weathered and beaten down by something he had no control over nor hope to ever fight against.

Maxwell breathed entirely even, for the first time since night had fallen, just the shakiest of lodged sensation and poking, prodding itch to the back of his throat, and he stared into the other man's eyes, seeing so much and yet knowing there was so little to be found in his own.

"...I'll consider it." He offered back, spoken just as quietly, and it was the least he could do, wasn't it? 

Wilson gave him a soft smile in return, squeezing a gentle hold to his held hand, and with Webber between them, those red caging spider lilys slowly wilting and dropping away now under both men's care, to land together with the fallen dandelions-

-it was an assurance he might be able to put some real hope into, after so very long of going without.


End file.
